


came the stern answer

by tatou



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Pan, Gen, M/M, more headcanon-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From afar they look disgustingly intimate, the boy-King of Neverland and his Captain- a boy knelt to comfort a dying man, their lips close as if to share a parting secret, careful hands nestled into bloodied garments. But circled as they are by the whirling mass of dancers, all aglow from the fire's touch, there is something of the devil's hand to the scene, lending it a terrible look of ritual or sacrifice.</p><p>Killian blinks blood from his eye and looks up to see the black infestation of madness writhing in Peter's eyes, a wrathful, spoiled child intent on having what he wants if it means blood and horror.</p><p>“You'll not leave me.” Peter hisses to him. “I forbid it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	came the stern answer

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dream I had, [this](http://freddycoconut.tumblr.com/post/76120916408) comic by freddycoconut, and [this lovely amazing darling](http://titians.tumblr.com). I didn't get to do much for the [captain pan challenge](http://wingsandwaves.tumblr.com/post/77395504477/welcome-to-wingsandwaves-very-first-30-day) some months ago due to work, but because I love this ship and I still want to contribute in some way, this fic fits nicely into the prompts for days 1, 6, 8, 12, 16, 20, and 25.

It takes six days, but when he is finally caught he is bound and gagged, and dragged all the way back across the island to where Pan most often makes camp. There, he is cast to his knees before the raging campfire, his temples and hair matted with dry and new blood.

 

His knees hit the ground hard, and the weight of him makes Killian sag and grunt in pain. The Lost Boys don't care or notice; too taken up by their catching of the famed pirate, they whoop and whirl and frolic in their odd, hypnotic manner, driven to a victorious frenzy by the notes of Peter's pipes and the snap of flames.

 

Sprawled in a seat fashioned of reeds, stone and moss, Peter stares at him from across the fire, his terrible little mouth curled in satisfaction above the lips of his pipes as he whistles out his hypnotic melody, one Killian knows far too well. He pulls away from his pipes to speak and the music continues without him, and the thuds of dancing footfalls behind him do not falter.

 

“How many of my boys did you kill?” He asks, swinging one leg idly against the legs of his green chair. He looks almost like any other boy bored with his day, lounging arrogantly with his legs spread, lacking something good to play with. But Killian made that mistake already once before, and where he once saw a wry-mouthed boy he sees nothing but evil made flesh. “Impressive, for a man lost and on the run.”

 

Killian straightens up as well as he can, working his wrists uselessly against the rope tied around them. The gag, disgusting with blood and sweat, disappears from his mouth with a bored, short jerk of Peter's hand. He wants to retch at the memory of the fabric on his tongue but he chokes out his words instead, more intent on the injustice of his capture.

 

“I wasn't _lost_.”

 

The boy shakes his head and smiles, lifting a corner of his russet cloak to wipe a spot of imagined dirt from his instrument. “You've been lost since you were a boy.” He corrects. “Even adrift on your beloved seas you're confused, Captain, always searching for something you can't name but can taste under your tongue. Here, on Neverland especially: you can't hide it from me. I know the look.”

 

Peter's gaze darts up to his boys, his first glance at them since they've arrived. His lips move as he counts. “Pierre's gone. Thomas and Stephen as well.”

 

“Aye.” Killian affirms, and a cruel smile darkens his face. A spike of remembered adrenaline fills him as he remembers the gore, the frantic tear of steel and crunching of bones as he fought to live and remain uncaught. Pan prides himself on the viciousness he instills into his Lost Boys; together they kill like machines, but Hook has lived here long enough to know their ways. He isolated them as best he could, picked the ones foolish enough to persist off like fish in a barrel. “I buried my hook in the first two boys' bellies and tore out their entrails, and the third I fought until I gained the vantage and bashed his skull.”

 

The festivities around him do not stop. If anything, they grow wilder at his words, and their exhilarated calls stretch outwards into the humid night. Visible at the corners of his eyes, they become nothing but a dizzying mess of black blurred shapes amidst the campfire's cast glow, ghosts that laugh and knock their makeshift axes noisily against tree-trunks or play flutes of their own, though none play particularly so well as Pan's own bewitched notes.

 

Sweat crawls down Killian's spine; he is drenched in it, stinking of physical exertion and earth and blood, but it does not bother him now, even as his leather attire slides uncomfortably along his slick skin, ragged and torn at the edges. It gladdens him to see their numbers (grown small already from his crew's valiant efforts) diminished further yet- a small, brief advantage, but an advantage nonetheless. The boys hunted him viciously: they loosed volleys of arrows after him, sent him stumbling down cliffs and dropping to the bottoms of lakes to stay hidden, followed his tracks like hounds. Their faces- he remembers them faintly, bloodied and frozen with youth and hatred even in death.

 

“What a pity.” Peter says. He does not look upset at the losses. He does not care- he can easily send out his shadow again and replenish his little gathering tenfold if he wishes.

 

Peter's boots, leathersoled and silent, hit the ground slowly as he stretches up from his seat, leaving his pipes on the smooth stone. Approaching the Captain, he has eyes only for his captive, the greens of them glittering with ill-hidden malice, or delight, and Killian's heart stutters into overdrive.

 

As he nears, Peter lifts a hand to the laces at his neck and tugs the knot undone so that his cloak spools like flowing water to his feet, revealing a slender form bedecked in velvety, aged greens that remind Killian oddly of wine.

 

“Did you think it would cause me pain?” Peter asks, kneeling so that their gazes and bodies are level. “Did you think I would weep for the ones weak enough to fall?”

 

Killian flinches when the boy's hands slide into his hair, grazing past torn, sensitive scalp. “I've never heard tell of any devil's tears.”

 

“Is that what you think I am?” Peter withdraws one hand, remarking in silence at the fresh sheen of blood soiling his palm, and, after regaining Hook's gaze, drags his wet hand over his open mouth, staining teeth, lips, and chin. He licks his lips like the taste pleases him, releasing a satisfied hiss of breath. “A devil?”

 

“ _The_ devil.” Killian corrects, swallowing back his disgust- but there is something about his life's blood on that mouth, smeared wretchedly on that pointed little chin that grabs hold of the pirate's attention and keeps it relentlessly, so that he cannot look away even if he wishes to. A small part of him wonders if his blood is the first to grace that tongue. Surely not- there are days when Peter looks like he could rip someone's throat out himself, whether it be with his fingers or his teeth. He is a wild thing, through and through. “I'm not a man of faith, boy, but I know evil when I see it.”

 

Peter laughs, and yanks on Killian's hair.

 

The slash on his scalp, inflicted by an overeager dagger, rips further open and sends a fresh wave of blood streaming down the side of the pirate's face, forcing him to shut an eye. He barely manages to keep a scream back; determined not to let Peter win even this little battle, Killian grits his teeth from the agony of it, buckling when the handful of his hair is twisted so that he is leaning into Pan's chest, hissing and shuddering out his pains into the green of his attire. The sounds he makes are drowned out by the monotonous beat of a drum somewhere nearby, behind him where the Boys never cease their movements.

 

“You don't get to say what I am.” Peter snarls. “Not you, not anyone. No _adult_ names me.”

 

“Let me go.” Killian spits. Shivering from the aftershocks left by the pain, he is too limp to struggle away, even when Peter begins to finger down his bruised neck, letting a curious finger probe into the less serious wound there, caused by a barely-avoided arrow.

 

“What shall I do with you, Killian?”

 

Peter does not seem to acknowledge his rage, nor his demand. He searches Killian's neck with hungry eyes, assessing the scraped flesh with the pad of his digit. “You worked so prettily for me before- there was your grumbling and your doubts and fear, but I allowed you those for my own amusement. All this sudden rebellion- who aims to turn my Captain against me?”

 

“Time is your enemy, Pan, not I.”

 

The hand has left Killian's filthy hair at last, slid down to the buttons of his waistcoat and tracked his way with red. The clearance of pain allows him a cleaner thought, faster speech; he pulls as far back as the demon will let him go, the closeness of his breath and cheek stifling. “You've kept me on this blasted land longer than I know of- your madness spreads through my crew, through _me_ -”

 

“And what, you think yourself too good for madness, for Neverland?” Peter sneers. “You planned all this so I would take pity and grant you leave?”

 

The venom cannot be taken from his voice, no matter how hard Killian struggles to keep calm.

 

“Free my men. _Give me back my ship_.”

 

It had been his re-continued search for the island's native brambles of poison- the ugly, unassuming plant that was just as much Liam's killer as Killian and Pan were- that had sparked Peter's ire- he had let years go by to throw the boy off the scent and make him think Killian had accepted the wait. But those six days earlier, Killian had thought he'd gotten himself a small window of opportunity, and he had grasped it eagerly, sent a group of his men to distract the demon and his following. The search had turned up fruitless- either the island itself or Peter had been aware of his intentions all along and had yanked any chance Killian had possessed from underneath his feet, leaving him days deep into the jungle and utterly lost, but as soon as he had returned to the beach in his defeat, had found nothing but an empty shore and several scatterings of blood clumped into the sand.

 

Unmoved by the promised threat in Killian's tone, Peter regards him with cool eyes. “Do you take me for a fool? You'd run straight to the seas.”

 

He's right. It was a long shot by far, but Peter is wildly unpredictable- some foolish part of Killian had _hoped_ -

 

What he wouldn't give to be away from this treacherous land now, out of the sinister youth's clutches and be returned safely to some kind of normalcy. It has been weeks since he last stood on his ship or sailed the vast stretch of sea surrounding Neverland, years, nearly a century, since he sailed under stars that didn't belong to Peter.

 

The thought of it breaks Killian's control on his rage in two.

 

“ _You can't keep us here!_ ”

 

Peter drags Killian upright and watches as the pirate reels back dizzily from the blow to his cheek (that sound, too, is lost in the celebration's din, but when Peter speaks in his hushed angered tone it comes across superbly clear, even when the blood in Killian's head roars), breathing so quick and heavy he sounds deadly, _animal_.

 

From afar they look disgustingly intimate, the boy-King of Neverland and his Captain- a boy knelt to comfort a dying man, their lips close as if to share a parting secret, careful hands nestled into bloodied garments. But circled as they are by the whirling mass of dancers, all aglow from the fire's touch, there is something of the devil's hand to the scene, lending it a terrible look of ritual or sacrifice.

 

Killian blinks blood from his eye and looks up to see the black infestation of madness writhing in Peter's eyes, a wrathful, spoiled child intent on having what he wants if it means blood and horror.

 

“You'll not leave me.” Peter hisses to him. “I forbid it.”

 

And then, to the circle of careless boys around them, all of whom come to an immediate halt in their festivities when Pan's voice barks, amidst their answering cheers:

 

“Flog him.”

 

And Killian panics.

 

He has suffered at Peter's hand what feels like thousands of times before, but never something like this, never something so public (even if it is to a mad gathering of impressionable youths).

 

“Don't.” He says, the whites of his eyes shining in the firelight, helpless to watch as Peter summons a tall wooden post to rise from the ground before them, and iron chains to replace the blistering rope around his wrists, linked securely to the post's ring. “Don't- Peter please, you can't- _listen to me damn you-”_

 

“Don't panic so, Killian. You've been flogged before, I'm sure you can handle one more time.”

 

Peter ignores his protests, calmly tugging at the chains to test their security and circling around to Killian's back. He kneels again briefly, taking a moment to produce a dagger and lean in to press his lips to the pirate's cheek as he slices down into his leather and slices down his proud-collared coat's back. Killian jerks in his arms, desperate to get free, but the hold on him constricts.

 

“Calmly now, Captain, I'd hate to spoil the fun if your spine met my knife.” He reprimands, jerking the blade down to split the coat in two. He works away the sleeves next, ignoring Killian's curses. “Don't mourn the coat, I can easily spell it back together.”

 

When he has hacked away the last of the supple leather, he kicks the scraps of fabric to the side and rips away Killian's shirt with his hands, leaving his back bare and the ground littered with silver buttons.

 

Smiling, Peter traces curious hands down the line of Killian's back, tripping his demonic little fingers down across the ridged, erratic scratches of scars. “I'm sure I don't have to remind you to get something between your teeth this time.”

 

Hunched over with his back bared to the onlookers and his head pressed rigidly to the post, Killian has to strain to get a look at his side, where Pan beckons forth one of his Lost Boys and presses the weapon of choice, materialized from thin air, into his hands.

 

The boy hardly spares a look at Killian, far more intent on the inflicting of harm. It's obvious in the way his hands flex eagerly over the terrible thing's nine knotted, leather tails, his jaw tightening. Perhaps one of the boys Killian killed was a brother, or a friend. “How many lashes?”

 

Pan smiles down at him, standing close enough for Killian to bury his face in his thigh, and strokes a gentle hand through his drying hair.

 

“Thirty.”

 

The music has stopped now. There is no more dancing, nor are there shouts of celebration. The jungle has come to a complete standstill- the Lost Boys have gathered around in attentive silence, their gazes hard and trained directly on his vulnerable back, waiting. Killian stays rigidly still, feeling their hateful, critical eyes pry apart his aged scars.

 

From beside him, Peter calls their attention. “Pay attention, boys, and know this as a warning to any of you that might think to rebel against me as this codfish has.”

 

Killian always thought himself too proud to beg, but the memory of his last flogging sends a violent tremor of fear through him, and hatred. The only consolotory thought he can think of is that at least here, he will not be dragged back to a dungeon when the lashes are dealt.

 

“ _Peter_.” He implores pathetically, but he is not heard, only given a soft swipe of a thumb across the top of his ear.

 

“On my count.” Peter calls. “One.”

 

The first blow is meager, causing only a sharp sting of discomfort, and for a moment it gives Killian hope that he will be able to withstand the punishment. The difference between this incident and his first is great- this is a mere sapling of a boy wielding the whip, not a bulked, experienced flogger hired for his strength and eagerness to split flesh. He sags with his relief, and Pan notices.

 

His dagger goes flying with a sharp twist of his arm; the blade narrowly misses the flogger's foot. The boy leaps back with a startled shout as the blade embeds itself into the ground at his feet, the hilt trembling from the force of the throw.

 

Pan twists a newly summoned blade deftly between his fingers, his look close to one of rage. “Harder, or you're next. Two.”

 

The second stuns the breath from Killian's lungs, and he cannot hide the way he surges forward against the post, against Peter, grunting at the fire blooming on his flesh.

 

“Easy, Killian.” Peter speaks as calmly as though he were not putting on a display of brutality, as if he were speaking to an uneasy dog. “Three.”

 

Another lash, harder, then “Four,” and Killian's teeth sink deep into his lower lip in his hurry to stop himself from making noise, the heat on his back blazing from an itch to an explosion. There is no deviance from the lashes- the leather tails catch him in the same area each time, and god, it stings to move, to breathe. Killian can feel blood pooling down his sides and ears, sweat coating his neck, but none of it is as bad as the fifth lash. The Lost Boy doling out his punishment is gaining stride, gathering a rhythm. Killian wonders if he's enjoying himself- the others, watching closely and laughing when he flinches, certainly are.

 

“Six.” Peter calls, and Killian bites back a scream as the leather strikes, his body jerking from the force of the blow. His clenched teeth throb, grinding when another strike comes and he nearly swallows his tongue from the way it cracks across his spine. His hands shake from where they hang in their restraints, arms stiff and locked at the elbows.

 

“Hurry up and get it over with.” He calls out, incensed at the boys' laughter, and his punishment is two more lashes in quick succession, brought down before Peter could voice the order. For a moment he's delirious with the hope that Peter will threaten his flogger again, furious at the act without his call, but a laugh comes from above him instead, and the stroking hand slides down thoughtlessly to his cheek. Killian doesn't need to look up to know where Pan's gaze is.

 

Behind him, the boys spit learned obscenities at him to accompany his cries, their faces twisted in cruel enjoyment of the scene. Do they hate him because he has killed and terrorized their number, or because they are angry, mindless children who hate as their peers do?

 

“Nine.”

 

Harder still comes the blow, and his gasp dries out his throat. Killian buries his sweaty temple into Pan's thigh, his sweat drenching the fabric of his breeches, certain that he is going to grind his teeth to gritty nubs.

 

There is nothing to worry for- the next strike, the tenth, splits flesh. He screams into Peter's leg, his arms jerking to rustle the chains violently as his body moves instinctually in an attempt to escape. Peter does not push him away, nor does he react at all. He merely continues stroking the pirate's ear and calls for the next blow.

 

Killian cannot take any more. He bites into a mouthful of Peter's shirt (shirt or breeches, he can't tell with his eyes closed) and stifles himself to the best of his ability; if they want a show they can tear it from his cold bones. The lashes surpass anything he has been dealt before- he's more than certain Peter's strengthening the blows with his magic, eager to sate his bloodlust. No boy of such a skinny build as the chosen flogger can pull such terrifying force from thin air.

 

He holds out until the twelfth.

 

By then the tears come, and he keeps his face pressed into the folds of Peter's clothing, his back throbbing unbearably, his cheeks molten with humiliation. They will never fear him again- when new boys are recruited they will be told of the once fearsome pirate captain that sobbed into his captor's hip when he was flogged, and they will seek to put him through a torment of their own, without Peter's lead. But that is not what angers him, not the insolent youths bleeding him dry and cheering as the lashes fall. It is Peter who holds claim to that fury, proudest and worst of them all, devil-demon-king-boy that he is.

 

“Look at him cry, the coward.” A voice calls from the audience, and more laughter, higher than before, follows. Killian is too exhausted to react, even when Peter looks down to him, both hands on his cheeks now. He doesn't seem to mind the sweat or blood; he wipes Killian's tears away with gentle thumbs and smiles almost serenely at the Captain, eyes still aflame. His eyes devour Killian whole, absorb every jerk of his body and strangled cry that rips from his throat when the leather tails whistle through the air and are brought down on him again.

 

Of all the spectators, he is enjoying this the most.

 

Killian didn't expect anything different.

 

The music starts again, but this time there are no accompanying flutes, nothing to sweeten the sound: only the steady beat of a hollow drum that churns in Killian's mind like a rogue wave- or perhaps it is the sound of his own heart's beat echoing through his body, but he cannot be sure. It drowns out the Lost Boys' clamorings and the sharp crack of leather meeting his skin.

 

He has never felt so raw; his body shakes from the intensity of the burn in his flesh. He cannot tell if he has gone numb to the pain or if it is so blinding he cannot feel it at all.

 

Peter cups his cheeks sweetly, their faces close enough that if Killian had the energy he could jerk forward and rip off his pert little nose with his teeth.

 

“Neverland drinks your blood like it cares nothing for rainwater.” Peter murmurs to him, and Killian's gaze flickers down to the ground at his knees, where flecks and streams of blood splatter messily to the ground and, true to Peter's word, vanish, sucked up by greedy soil, leaving no mess behind. Just past his elbow, the campfire gives a violent series of snaps, reaching fat orange fingers to the sky as its base of crumbling branches collapses.

 

It sends some of the Lost Boys jumping away to avoid the fanning flames, breaking the small gathering's focus on his punishment. They exclaim in surprise as the air goes scorched and filled with smoke (faintly, Killian thinks he is glad for the removal of his coat, else he would have seared to a black nothing inside), and in the resulting darkness there is nothing to see but the several thousands of sparks and last dying wisps of flame that scatter about on the roiling winds, tiny flickers of red in the night amidst the black hazy shapes of the faceless crowd.

 

Peter's laugh begins there, a small chuckle and twist of his lips and then higher, makes Killian want to claw at his ears. Through all this, the thudding beat grows louder, never changing in pace.

 

“You're as much a part of Neverland as I am, now.” Peter says, and Killian's arms go slack in their restraints, even as the wretched creature barks out the next number (“Nineteen.”) and he is struck again.

 

 _What have you done,_ Killian thinks blearily, his eyes stinging from the stink of burnt branches and leaves.

 

He stays conscious to the twenty-first.

 

After he has succumbed to the shock and gone utterly limp, Peter orders the remaining nine done in quick succession. His back a ragged mess of vibrantly bloody and flayed flesh, his mouth slack, Killian does not wake. He only twitches, sharp intakes of breath whistling through his nose as Peter counts them out. He dreams he is trapped in an endless, black cave where the walls glitter an inexplicable green, and in the waking world Peter kisses his Captain's slack, dry lips, and orders the festivities to continue.

 


End file.
